by John Masters
‘They’re enjoying themselves, and no mistake,’ Ethel Fagioletti said, adjusting herself more comfortably in her chair, and moving the ball of wool round to the side so that it wouldn’t catch on her knees … not much point in knitting more khaki socks and comforters and balaclavas, now it was over, but she’d got so used to it by now, her hands wouldn’t know what to do if she stopped. She looked with pride and love at Lady Helen’s baby. It might have been her own … one would be, just as soon as Niccolo came home. She felt heavy already, as though she were five or six months gone … she longed for the moment when Niccolo would come to her. That was funny, because she used to dread it, though she loved him – or thought she did. Could a woman love a man and yet fear … that?
Betty Merritt, sitting the other side of Helen, said, ‘I hope you boarded up your boutique windows.’
Helen said, ‘We didn’t bother. Ethel was sure the crowds weren’t in a mood to break things deliberately, so we just locked up and came home. No good trying to sell anything today. I would have been ashamed to, anyway.’
‘If we stayed, Lady Helen would have been giving it all away, if you ask me,’ Ethel said.
The three women sat in silence for several minutes, the baby gurgling down its mother’s milk, Ethel knitting socks for soldiers but thinking of her husband’s sexual equipment and her own soon-to-be-gravid womb, Betty looking out of the window into the street but seeing only the trenches, and Fletcher, standing on a firestep, safe at last. Without warning Betty found tears flooding her eyes. The other women pretended not to notice until her stifled sobs became too loud to ignore.
‘What is it, Betty?’ Helen said quietly. ‘Are you afraid, still, that he might not come back?’
Betty shook her head and at last muttered, ‘It’s just … that I’m so happy … and so afraid. He’ll come back, but will he be the same?’
Helen said, ‘I don’t know, Betty.’ She shifted the baby carefully to the other breast, and put a wad of cottonwool over the released nipple, which was still dripping milk. ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’ Now it was she who found her eyes filling, and Ethel saw that, and began to cry with her; so the three women cried together, almost silently, while the room grew louder and louder with the triumphant roar of celebration from outside.
The soldiers stood in a row behind a brick wall at the edge of a nameless village in Flanders, rifles rested beside them, bayonets fixed. They were staring eastwards across a field, where brown and white cows grazed in damp, green grass. Tall trees beyond the field bowered a château. They were on Belgian soil, and in the village beyond the château church bells were ringing.
‘Why the ’ell doesn’t the captain order us to stand down?’ a soldier muttered to the man next to him on the wall. ‘It’s over. What are we standing here for?’
Private Lucas, the soldier addressed, said, ‘Because we haven’t ’ad no orders to move.’
‘But that’s what I’m asking, why the fuck ’aven’t we got orders? Why ain’t we ’aving an extra rum ration … throwing our ’ats in the air … dancing with the mademoiselles … slap and tickle with the mothers?’
Lucas sucked his teeth, spat out a particle of bully beef he had dislodged, and said, ‘You ain’t been out two weeks. You don’t understand. Shut up and watch your front.’
He remained motionless, staring across the field, watching his front, the forestock of the rifle in his right hand, so that he could pull it up and into the firing position with a single movement. Sergeant Fagioletti walked up the line behind the row and finally took position behind the centre of the platoon he now commanded, since Mr Cowell had been evacuated with the wounded wrist and hand. He’d keep the platoon, too, because they wouldn’t bother to send out any more officers now that the war was over. How long would it be before he saw Ethel again? It would be nice to try to give her a baby, very nice … but what was really important was to see her … Funny, he’d never thought of her that way before. It used to be the other way round, cunt first and the rest, later – if ever. A movement on the right caught his eye and he said sharply, ‘Where are you off to, Private Blaker?’
‘Got to have a shit, sarn’t.’
‘You stand where you are. The captain’s coming.’
‘But …’
‘Stand still, I said. You’re on stand-to, Blaker. You shit your pants if you have to, but don’t leave your post, got it?’
‘Yes, sarn’t, but …’
Fagioletti marched smartly to the right of his platoon line, where Captain Kellaway was approaching with his batman-runner and the company sergeant-major. ‘Number Seven Platoon, all correct, sir,’ Fagioletti reported, and fell in at the captain’s side. It felt funny, still, inspecting Stand-to out in an open field, not in a trench or a shell hole, on grass instead of mud, and no rotting Jerries, or the stinking legs of a Gordon Highlander sticking out of the sandbags …
Kellaway said, ‘So the war’s over at last, eh, sergeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘When we stand down tell the men the colonel’s trying to get a rum ration for the battalion, but we’ve been moving so fast this past week we’re well ahead of the supply train, so … we’ll probably have to do with beer and wine, from the estaminets.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right. Stand down and return to billets.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The captain passed on as Fagioletti bellowed, ‘Number Seven Platoon, stand down … Close on me … In two ranks, fall in! Listen! The colonel’s trying to get a rum ration. We’ll know soon whether he’s got it … In twos – Number! Move to the right in column of fours … form fours! Right! By the left – quick march! … March at ease!’
The twenty men trudged back across the field behind them and into the outskirts of the hamlet beyond that. Private Lucas’s eyes were full of tears, but no one noticed, or would have believed it if they had.
Battalion Headquarters of the 1st Battalion the Weald Light Infantry was in a cowshed at the near edge of that hamlet. The shed was redolent of cow dung, which was even now being broomed and shovelled out into the midden by a girl and a boy of the farm, the girl about sixteen, the boy fourteen, both wearing torn, ragged clothes and wooden clogs. Lieutenant Woodruff, who had resumed his old post as adjutant on Archie Campbell’s death, was sitting on a milking stool looking through a small pile of message forms and official envelopes, the stool set up by the low door to the shed. The shed was at present empty of cows, except for one, at the far end, heavy with calf and from all appearances very soon to produce.
Father Caffin sat on another stool opposite Woodruff, writing a letter on his knee, with a pencil and an army message form. Their commanding officer, Quentin Rowland, strode up and down the length of the shed, behind the manger where the cows were milked twice a day, a ship’s captain on a dark and very smelly quarterdeck.
‘Sure we’ve had no other orders yet, Woodruff?’ he barked, stopping opposite the adjutant.
‘No, sir … but we’ve got some decorations … A bar to the MC for Captain Kellaway … three DCMs, one for the RSM … six MMs … Fagioletti’s got one.’
‘He ought to have had the DCM I put him in for,’ Quentin growled.
Father Caffin looked up from his letter – ‘And you ought to have had your DSO long, long ago, colonel … except that the general would never think of putting you in for it. We never saw him, so he never saw you.’
‘That’s enough of that, padre,’ Quentin said, and resumed his pacing.
Woodruff exclaimed, ‘What on earth! … From the Indian Ordnance Depot, Lucknow … claim for rupees sixty-four annas fourteen pies four … on account of lost pakhals, to be paid forthwith by Lieutenant C. J. C. Rowland … That’s Boy.’
The colonel was back and overheard – ‘Boy?’ He took the message from Woodruff’s hand, read it, and swore under his breath – ‘Boy paid, I know he did. They’ve lost the cheque.’ God, he thought, the Indian Ordnance people would hound a man into his g
rave, and beyond. He said, ‘Look, Woodruff, see that it’s paid, from the Imprest Account. Tell me how much, and I’ll pay the same amount back, when I have it. But get the payment to the IOD countersigned by the Staff Captain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Quentin resumed his pacing.
‘Bejasus, these letters are hard to write,’ Father Caffin muttered. ‘And I’m not blaspheming, Woodie boy. I’m telling the good Lord that without his help I wouldn’t be able to write them, at all … This is to the mother of Private Brace, who was killed back there in that mining village.’
The adjutant glanced down at one of the pieces of paper in his lap and said, ‘He’d got an MM in this latest list.’
‘He worked for my father, before he joined up,’ Quentin said.
The priest laid down his pencil – ‘Ah! What pride in the house that would have been … a month ago.’ He picked up his pencil and began to write again.
The CO stopped beside them once more – ‘Still nothing?’
‘No, sir. I expect they’re still celebrating.’
‘They’re far enough back to be celebrating,’ Quentin said. ‘Our men aren’t. They’re silent as the grave.’
‘They’re in shock, colonel,’ the priest said. ‘The change is too sudden, the ending too final. The war was part of them, like a leg or an arm.’
‘We ought to be getting orders,’ Quentin said. ‘To advance! Push through the Huns, and if they try to shoot or delay us, sweep them aside without mercy …’
Woodruff said, ‘But, sir, we’re to let them get three days’ march ahead so that we won’t clash with them.’
Quentin’s face was purple with rage – ‘So that they can cross the Rhine and march back into Germany in formed formations!’ he bellowed, ‘with their arms, and guns, and bands playing and colours flying … an unbeaten army! Two days ago they were a rabble … defeated, smashed! We’ve been pulverising them since August 8th. They are a beaten army, a beaten people! But it won’t look like it when they get home. They’ll be able to say, we weren’t beaten … and they will say it! And you know what that means?’
He glared at the priest, and Caffin said, ‘No, sir.’
‘It means war!’ Quentin thundered. ‘They’ll come at us again … And we’ll have to beat them again. And it’ll cost just as much as it did this time. When will the bloody politicians ever learn?’
‘I think this was a military order, sir,’ Woodruff said cautiously. ‘I believe it came from the High Command, Marshal Foch and Field Marshal Haig.’
Quentin shouted, ‘Well then, Marshal Foch and Field Marshal Haig are wrong! Wrong! Wrong!’
He turned his back and resumed his angry pacing of the cowshed. The cow at the end began to low and the French girl ran to her, calling to her brother in Flemish.
Woodruff turned over another message and exclaimed, ‘Good heavens! Sir … sir!’
Quentin swung back sharply, ‘A message? Orders to advance and catch up the Huns?’
‘No, sir … You’ve been appointed to command a brigade in India and will assume the rank of Brigadier General as soon as you take command. You are to relinquish command of the battalion at once and return to Hedlington by the fastest means.’
‘A brigade?’ Quentin said. ‘But I’m not p.s.c …. In India? What brigade?’
‘The Hassanpore Brigade, sir.’
Quentin said, ‘But … then I’ll have to leave the battalion … just when we’ve won … I don’t want a brigade!’
Father Caffin said, ‘It’s an order, sir. And I was wrong about the higher command. Someone up there must know what a wonderful job you’ve done.’
Quentin muttered, ‘Who’ll take over the battalion? There’s no one senior enough. They’ll have to send someone out from England.’ He walked out suddenly, saying, ‘I’ll be back soon.’
A few hundred feet away the men of No. 7 Platoon, B Company, were cleaning their weapons and equipment in another farmyard, in the open air, for there was no room for them inside the farm buildings or barns. Snaky Lucas, looking round, said, ‘All new faces since …’
‘Since Mons? ’Course we are. Not many ’ad your luck, Snaky.’
‘Since the Somme … mostly since Passchendaele. Well, when we played the board we was really just passing our money round and round among ourselves, like.’
‘’Cept most of it was sticking to you as it passed.’
‘… now we ’ave new blood, new enthusiasm.’ He looked round. ‘I’ll set up the board in the corner, behind that old cart. Come along one by one, easy like.’
The young soldier next to Lucas said, ‘Why not set it up here in the open? The fucking war’s over! We don’t have to obey anyone’s orders any more. Who’s going to stop a little Crown and Anchor game?’
‘Sergeant Fagioletti is, for one,’ Lucas said. ‘This is a regular battalion of the Weald Light Infantry, young feller, and don’t forget it. Wars and peaces don’t make no difference to us, and the board ain’t allowed, so our NCOs and officers will put us on a charge if they see it, see? And it’s our jobs as self-respecting soldiers of the best regiment in the army to see that they don’t see it, see? An’ here’s someone else who’ll tell you the same thing.’ He glanced round, confirmed that he was the senior soldier present, and jumped to his feet, shouting, ‘Section, ’shun!’
The others struggled up and stood rigid. Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Rowland came up, walking heavily. He saluted and muttered, ‘Stand easy.’ He stared at Lucas, and at last said, ‘Lucas … they’re sending me away.’
Lucas said, ‘Away, sir? From the battalion?’
‘Yes. I’m being promoted.’
‘Well, congratulations, sir. You should have ’ad it years ago.’
‘But, Lucas … I don’t want to go.’ He looked round at the others, new men all, only a month or two with the battalion. He thought he’d ask them, do you understand? But before he could speak Lucas said, ‘They won’t understand, sir.’
‘I think I’ll refuse the appointment.’
Lucas said, ‘You can’t do that, sir. It’s an order … ’sides, they wouldn’t leave you with us.’
At length Quentin said, ‘No, they wouldn’t. Well, good-bye Lucas … And thank you … thank you, all of you.’
The men stood rigid, tongue-tied. One of them thought, crikey, the old man’s crying … what’s happened? Only Lucas said anything – ‘Good luck, sir. We’ll remember you.’
Daily Telegraph, Tuesday, November 12, 1918
LONDON WELCOMES THE GLAD TIDINGS
GREAT SCENES OF JOY
London has heard no such paean of exultant joy as that which, just on the stroke of eleven, upon the grey November morning, thrilled the hearts of the whole population. The effect was magical and indescribable. A minute or so before the amazing outburst there was nothing in the aspect of the streets or the demeanour of citizens to suggest that anything unusual was astir. Under leaden, threatening skies, people were going about their business in the ordinary way, just as though nothing in the least unusual was happening or about to happen.
Then, of a sudden, came the sounds of gunfire, and as the maroons, transformed from portents of danger into signals for rejoicing, thundered out their message of peace, there went up from end to end of the metropolis such tumultuous cheering as no mere words could even faintly describe. The thrill of it will live in the memory alike of the oldest and youngest of us. So, too, will the unforgettable scenes that followed …
… of all the day’s impressive scenes of heartfelt jubilation none, perhaps, was more unforgettable, more thrilling … than that witnessed in front of Buckingham Palace at the moment when, in response to the tumultuous cheers of the surging crowd – cheers that seemed ever to grow in volume and intensity – the King and Queen came out on the balcony overlooking the forecourt to be acclaimed with full-throated fervour by countless thousands of their loyal and loving subjects …
It must have been a wonderful occasion, Cate thought. It
would have been nice to have been there. But it had been wonderful here in Walstone, too, and Walstone was his place. He’d gone down to the village soon after eleven, to the clanging of the bells, and had a cherry brandy in the Arms. Old Miss Parsley was already tiddly, and would become more so. There were people in there that morning who never went into pubs, but that day the Beaulieu Arms, the Goat and Compasses, and the Green Man had become the heart of the village’s celebration … and of its dedication. There’d be services of thanksgiving in the church, of course; but it was in the pubs that the people had first shared the grandeurs and miseries of victory.
He glanced at his watch: a meeting of the Mid Scarrow War Problems Committee in Hedlington at three … but would it meet? And if it did, what would they discuss? Perhaps the all-party committee would never meet again. The war and the nation’s single, driving purpose had held it together: now the members would pull their separate ways, they who had been partners in the common great enterprise become enemies and rivals. It was a pity, for the problems that Mid Scarrow – and England – now faced were no less than they had been twenty-four hours ago; in fact they were greater – much greater, much more diverse, much more intractable.
Well, unless he heard to the contrary within the next half hour, he’d go up to Hedlington, and tell the other members of the committee just that.
Garrod came in and said, ‘Colonel Rowland’s on the telephone, sir.’
Cate jumped to his feet – ‘Quentin? Good heavens, where can he be calling from?’ He hurried out and picked up the receiver – ‘Quentin? Where are you?’
‘Calais … I’ve been posted to India, to command a brigade, and they’ve sent me home in a hurry … and now I’ll probably be kicking my heels for a month in the Depot before they can fit us into a troopship … Christopher, will you call Fiona and tell her I should be with her tonight? Don’t know when, the trains are in a mess.’
‘Certainly,’ Cate said. ‘But wouldn’t you like to speak to her yourself?’
